Survived
by Cards
Summary: Now looking back on it I don’t even think it happened. Its impossible completely and utterly impossible. No one can go back in time. Its easier to believe that I was kidnapped and beaten into believing this happened instead
1. Looking in the Mirror

Now looking back on it I don't even think it happened. Its impossible completely and utterly impossible. No one can go back in time. Its easier to believe that I was kidnapped and beaten into believing this happened instead.

But then I look down on my body My now bloody knuckles, cheeks that are hollow, even my friend's moms best Italian cooking hasn't put much fat on my face or body, though I no longer look like a poster child for some Christian charity. Can look at my hair, still long, longer then when I left. But now its slightly limper, the blonde shimmer from before gone.

But all of that could be my imagination. My eyes though, they tell me the truth. They tell me that I did indeed sleep on the streets, that the scars on my body aren't from some pervert who raped and beat me. They're from impatient adults who had no problem pushing a weak girl away from them, who when they catch a thief will beat the girl.

They tell of laughing heartily for two years, hanging out with a group of guys. Of running on the cobbles, not worrying about twisting an ankle. They remind me of looking into a puddle, and seeing my face, lip split from an argument with a guy over how much money we should split.

When I look into the mirror I remember that I can speak Yiddish and Italian, almost as well as English. That I have a New York accent, for to those who live there. When I first got back almost no one could understand me. Took me a few hours to adjust it.

I know now that my food won't be stolen if I don't eat it fast. I know that no one will kill me for my clothes or rape me for looking slightly good.

But even knowing that its hard to adjust.

I still wake up at Dawn, walking till I can't walk any more. Looking at our small town I laugh. The air is so clean, I had a hard time believing it. I walk by barns with cows, Cows! I had almost forgotten about them. Milk in my mind had started to come from a glass bottle when you had enough money to afford it.

My eyes reminded me that this was all true.

My eyes told me that I had survived.

Then I started to remember

Disclaimer: I own this main character, Disney owns the others that will be used.

Author's notes: Okay trying this one again -sigh- New theory and New Characters. No Cliches. Hopefully. Woo!


	2. First real Look

The day I went missing, I was wearing a pair of jeans, slightly tight, a black tee shirt, tan men's shirt and my old bottle green vest from when I was Tom Sawyer for Halloween. I wore thick hiking boots, none of this was out of the norm, I didn't like wearing the revealing shirts my friends did. I wasn't as thin as them, but also I just didn't see the point in wearing that stuff. My freshly bleached hair was pulled back into a braid, decorated randomly with hair ties.

I'd been bleaching my hair since I was thirteen, my real hair colour was a deep strawberry blonde, some parts shimmered gold, others a rich copper. I hated it. I bleached to look more Nordic, with my pale skin and large blue eyes it worked on me without looking cheap.

I was on my way to return a DVD, nothing special about it. Though people later thought there was some symbolism to my running away with Benny and Joone in my pocket. I don't know what happened. I think it may have been a slip in the time space continuum that I fell into.

All I know is I slipped, fell and when I woke up, my head hurt, and there was a stench in the air that put manure season to shame. It smelt like a million bodies all in the same small room, none using deodorant, a smell of rotten vegetables, of dead animals. And I hated it. So what did I do? I turned over and added to the stench, throwing up on the cobbles.

Now I had been to the city a fair few times previous to this. And was able to recognize that I was in the Lower east side. Previously I had stayed in a friends deceased grandmother's house in the center of the most orthodox area. I recognized a few of the words being said as Yiddish.

This ment one of two things, I was in a coma and was imagining this. Or I had died.

Neither turned out to be true. Because as I sat up, I felt something dripping from the back of my head, I reached back and touched it. I was bleeding, not too badly, but the moment I saw the blood I felt the pain, unreal, I turned over and threw up again.

"Get outta da street ya crazy goil!' I sat up quickly feeling the cobblestones shake under me. As I ran over to the sides I saw that a carriage had nearly missed me

"Goyisher kop!" the carriage driver yelled back at me. I realized then, that I wasn't dead, or in a coma, I was back in time.

Upon realizing this I did the only thing I could think of, I threw up again, this time there was little of my burger I'd had for lunch left in my system and I threw up stomach acid. Wiping my mouth on my shirt I looked around. No one had really noticed me yet. I doubted that would last long. My dress was very different from those around me. Old women wearing head scarves, young boys wearing yarmulkes.

For a second I stood, watching around me, hand against my head, mouth agape at the vastness of this market town. I realized it was a miracle that I hadn't been run over by a cart in the few seconds it had taken me to throw up and move. The pain in my head had started to recede, as well as the stench around me. Slowly just as when I had been working in the town bakery I got used to the scents around me until I did not think about them. Though I still noticed the rotten smell I didn't think about them. My eyes gaped around me.

This was a dream come true. How could I not look around, I reached around inside my pocket, feeling only the broken DVD, I hadn't hoped much that I would find a thousand historically correct dollars in my pocket, but it would have been nice.

My hand still on my bleeding head I walked down the street, not many people looked at me. My clothing aside, I didn't look much like the rest of the people around. Horrible as it seems to say most of them looked very Jewish and I ever in my quest to look more Nordic stuck out like a sore thumb.

The words around me zipped around in a thousand different languages. I identified Yiddish, Italian, German, Hebrew, some English. The whole thing was different then anything I'd ever seen.

Even now when I remember those amazing Sundays on the streets, everything in the world being sold, bought, stolen. Nothing I have seen to this day matches the beauty and marvel of the Jewish markets on Sunday.

Wandering around the streets I noticed the poor newsboys. Many only nine or ten, they yelled in as many languages as I heard, reciting headlines that could not possibly be real. Headlines that I would have remembered from history classes if they had been true. Then just as soon as I was almost comfortable in this new enviroment I realized something.

Something fairly important to the rest of my time there.

I was a girl, unemployed, penniless, and had no place to live.

Disclaimer: I own our unnamed main charachter and nothing else.

Author's notes: Okay there will be newsies in this. Just not immediatly. I'm trying to make this as historically accurate as I can.

Well not completly, becasue then it would be a history lecture. But more so then a lot of others I've seen.


	3. Not Looking so Good

The first thing I thought was that I would be saved, like so many other girls in this seemingly fictional situation by a hot guy. I even looked around for a second, expecting a guy who fit my idea of attractive to walk around the corner and say in a charming New York accent that he'd be willing to help me.

The first person who walked around the corner was an old man wearing a greasy apron. His hair was a grizzled white. The fat from his apron seemed to have at one point been boiling hot and had burst upon his face, leaving scars from bad burns.

Though I had gotten used to the normal scent of what I realized was the Lower East Side. This man brought a stench to it like none other. I hurried away from him, worried he would look at me. My hand stroked my hair feeling the matted braid, caked with blood. Somewhere I remembered that head wounds bleed the most. I fact told to me by an EMT friend.

I'm a strong person, but as I walked away, gulping back tears I realized how horrible this could be. I didn't have any money, or any idea of the lay out of the city. Years of research on this time told me of how unlikely my odds for survival were, and how helpless I was. But I wouldn't allow my self to cry. Crying here wouldn't help me one bit. If I wanted to survive the first thing I needed was money, then food. Then shelter. And in the near future a more authentic looking outfit.

I'm not stupid. I could have easily been a hooker. But I'd rather beg, then learn to steal, then perhaps get a real job. I'm a hard worker, and I have a ton of skills. Most of which were completely irrelevant here. I can wash dishes, but that's a job best left to nepotism here. It looked like I would need to beg. I didn't trust my then feeble pick pocketing skills. I figured I could steal food for a little while. Because my first priority was to find a cheep flop house for the night. And to be able to pay for it.

I don't know if you've ever tried begging. But its humiliating. Holding my scraped up hands out, whimpering, begging quietly.

"Please Sir, Ma'am. Me ma' through me out, my pa's sick. Me brother jist died" My feeble attempts got me about a nickel, enough to stay in something better then a floor bed. My body was weary. My mind was about to crush itself. My entire being just wanted to crawl down and die. But my father didn't raise me to be a quitter. This was just another thing to deal with.

One thing no movie ever mentions, very few history books go into and no one writes in their diaries. The smoke in New York, was hell. Factories used fire, this is important for one crucial reason. It helped me blend in. When I first appeared, time traveled. Whatever I didn't look like I belonged, however three hours of walking, begging and generally submersing myself in the area. I looked a heck of a lot closer.

I've always been able to adapt an accent, my family has a ton of different accents in it. So I grew up hearing the differences in accents. This has always made it easy for me to understand and mimic passably foreign accents. And even the English spoken in different areas was hard to understand. Like ordering over the phone in a Chinese restaurant. You know the words sound familiar, but in reality they couldn't be more different. My mouth started taking to the vowel patterns, not even thinking about it. And my vocabulary in this new Dialect didn't need to be very extensive. Just a short pity story and a beg.

I put aside my pride, begging as I searched around for a flophouse that would take a girl. There weren't any I could find. The night was drawing closer, and I was getting worried. I know that little kids and drunks could sleep everywhere. But I didn't delusion myself into thinking I'd be able to survive on the streets. As I walked and begged my stomach made its self known to me. I hadn't eaten since a bowel of cereal at breakfast. And the hamburger for lunch. Which did me no nutritional good.

Again I found myself near tears. And this time I crawled into a niche and cried. It was the only time I allowed myself to do so for the next two years. That night I slept all hunched up. But I was hungry and tired and all I wanted was to be home.

Author's notes: I'm not as happy with this chapter as I am with the others. But I think once the character gets into the life it will be easier to write. Then I don't have to worry about her learning/knowing to much. Also, yes this character is based very much on myself. My thoughts on doing that is because I'm trying to write a story realistically it would be best to know my character's thoughts on everything, know her faults (We haven't gotten to those, but the are there in spades) and her perks (the accent thing is true. It takes about half an hour for me to do a basic of any accent) This isn't me though. I've yet to choose a name for this character but it won't be mine. The newsies will be in this. And they won't have turned into ass holes or rapists. They'll be pretty cannon (As cannon as you can get with this fandom)

Disclaimer: As of now I own it!


	4. Looking at the Gift horses Mouth

The next morning dawned in typical city fashion. Not quite bright enough to fuel my purpose, and bringing too much noise too be able to continue to sleep through. I stretched out, looking over my battered jeans, bloody knees sticking out through rips. I found it hard to believe that yesterday these jeans were brand new, or at least looked like it. I stood up, unbraiding my hair, wincing at the pain of the roots moving the sensitive flesh.

I've always been rather vain about my hair, and I feel that I've been right in this vanity. As I saw the blonde strands caked in blood I almost felt more faint then when I'd realized what had happened to me. I gently finger combed my hair, then gently pulled it back again. My gentle detangling had caused the wound to open up again and I nearly cried again in frustration.

By then the first of the Newsies were out peddling the papers to those who were on their way to work I dug into my pocket and pulled out a penny that I had from yesterday's begging. I knew better then to try and sell newspapers, I looked too old. And I had no where to sell, and no one had a reason to buy from a girl who quite frankly looked as messed up as I did.

As I headed over to a newsboy on the corner I mentally reorder my plan that I had set up for myself. I needed clothing. That annoyed me, I had hoped somewhere in my mind that my clothing would be close enough to allow me to make more money before I had to buy some. It was not so. The jeans hindered me more then anything else, and if I bought a long enough skirt then I would be alright. At least until I could afford a better shirt and woman's shoes.

The newsboy looked me over, his dark eyes evaluating me. I felt his stare even as he sold to a man passing by. And I wondered, what was he seeing in me? Did he see how terrified I was to be standing on this corner? Did he see what a faker I was? His eyes rested on the holes in my jeans.

"Pape ma'am?" He asked. I nodded handing him the penny. He looked at it pocketing the measly sum and handed me a paper. Twenty third of September. I was slightly relieved. I had a good two months before it got really cold. I took my paper down to a stoop of a seemingly free building. I don't remember the stories, or the headlines only the day, month and year. Twenty third of September in the year 1899.

I knew I wouldn't need to buy a paper, and I also knew I shouldn't have bought one. That was a penny that I would need to earn twice. I was going to have to be more intelligent about my spending habits, which were woefully bad. I was in the habit of buying stuff I really didn't need, at all. And now I was going to have to scrimp and save for things I needed. I would have to find some really cheap clothing, maybe even free. The churches might have a rag bundle that I could get something from. I decided that was my task for the day, to get a skirt, which would allow me to stay in a flophouse without having my reputation called into question. That would allow me to set up a home in which to get a better job.

I didn't even think of getting back. I didn't know how I had gotten here, how in the world would I get back? As I wandered around looking for a church, peaking into the large cavernous chambers. I finally reached a nunnery where I entered and the woman didn't look at me as though I was a burden.

I asked one of the nuns if she had any free clothing, though I think I worded it better. This was if possible more shaming then anything else, including the begging. Because now I had to watch the nun evaluate me.

"Please Sister" I begged softly, "My pa beats me and…" an older nun walked over, her eyes were tough. And the wrinkles around her eyes were not revealing if they were there from laughter or anger.

"Save the pity story." She said strictly. I shut up. The woman looked me over, "Come with me child."

For an instant I wondered if the woman was going to strike me for lying, for it seemed she knew all, and knew I had been lying. For a second I remembered a series of books where time travelers lost their shadow. I peered behind, only to see the dark out line of myself trailing behind. So much for that theory, no matter how flimsy. I was lead into a simple room with a large crucifix overlooking a desk. The woman took a seat. I realized she was the mother superior. And suddenly I was terrified that she would make me say a hail Mary or a rosary before giving me any clothing. My mother hated the Catholic church, and purposefully neglected my upbringing in the church. While I am baptized there isn't much else to it, and I was only baptized to stop my Irish catholic grandmother from kidnapping me and doing it herself.

"I don't want to hear some pity story" The woman said "You should be ashamed to lie to a nun." Her words were plain. "I can see as well as anyone else that you are in better health then most. What were you running from?"

"Its just circumstance that has me like this!" I said quickly. "I only have a nickel" I corrected my self "Four cents to my name and no way to make a living!"

The woman's brown eyes inspected me, very much in how I assume she would inspect a sinner kneeling for forgiveness. "Well, you seem learned enough. I'm sure I can help you."

I waited standing uncomfortably to hear the second half of that statement. The one I knew was coming. I am not disillusioned enough in my life to belive that things come for free.

"There is a church run boarding house for the orphans of the street. I'm sure they could use your help. There are others your age, and plenty of freedom allowed. You are under eighteen, correct?"

"I'll turn 18 in" I calculated "Three months ma'am" It was really more like two.

"After you turn 18 you'll be able to chooses to stay as a nun or to make your luck on the street. If someone comes to claim you, you should be able to explain to me why you wouldn't be able to go with them or I will send you with them."

That was no worry, no one would be looking for me here.

And it solved two important issues for me. One they would give me clothing and two I would have a home for two months. After they would probably be able to give me a reference to a job somewhere.

Author's notes: Yay! More of this! Give me imput! Help me out! Please!


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